


Poem

by resqueln



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Old school Supernatural, attempt at poetry, damnit jim i'm a doctor not a poet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:01:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resqueln/pseuds/resqueln
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old school case fic in poem form.  Not just tongue-in-cheek but possibly foot, hand and arm too.  </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Two brothers Winchester are</i><br/><i>travelling in yonder car.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Poem

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my betas Alex (alexisjane on LJ) and Alanie (alaniesanar on LJ)! Any mistakes left are my own.

Two brothers Winchester are  
travelling in yonder car.  
Youngest speaks to eldest thus,  
"In Spokane there be a ghost.”  
Eldest, he replies in turn:  
“Just a simple salt ‘n’ burn.  
Salt and fire is what we need,  
if we two are to succeed."  
The youngest sighs, rolls his eyes,  
"I know that, Dean," he replies.  
Crossing states, onwards they dash,  
no letting up on the gas.  
(Except to stop and hustle cash,  
and hit motels so they can crash).

Miles driven, music blaring,  
(and fraternal tempers flaring);  
they rock up, senses alerted.  
The town – quiet and deserted.  
No human voice, no dogs, no cars,  
no one in shops, no one in bars.  
In hushed voice, the eldest speaks:  
“This place is weird, gives me the creeps.”  
Eerie silence is all around,  
they soon drive on – graveyard bound.  
There, a resting place unmade,  
upturned stones about the grave.  
Kegs and wrappers, beer cans too,  
dropped by some unhappy youths;  
revels raising their tormentor -  
an unholy, gruesome spectre.

Bit by bit the hole is dug,  
brothers working, when dismal fug  
curls about the unearthed mound,  
choking, blinding, muffling sound.  
No natural mist can this be,  
Dean yells, “Run!” and then they flee.  
Stumbling from the foul miasma,  
from behind them a great clamour -  
piercing screams and wails of woe.  
They turn as one to face their foe.  
To their eyes – an alarming sight,  
that normally inspires fright,  
(Winchesters stand unaffected,  
being rather more collected,  
used to spooks, shades and poltergeists,  
and other creatures of the night).  


A ghost! With a look most forlorn,  
rotted flesh on his vapour form.  
Bloody vision, a sight most foul.  
On his face, a petulant scowl.  
“Damn those kids,” the shade exclaims,  
“Waking me up, -drives me insane!  
Every century I’ll be bound,  
they disturb this sacred ground!  
And only in the name of drink.  
Why? One hardly dares to think.  
Well I’ve got them now, got them sound,  
as my revenge I’ve cursed this town!”  


Sam goes left , Dean goes right,  
in a flash the bones – alight!  
Crackle, sizzle, gristle, pop,  
burning stench of flesh and rot.  
With screaming rage the ghoul descends,  
intent on brothers’ grizzly ends.  
Dean thrown aside, Sam’s shot gone wide,  
things looks bad for our heroes’ side!  
But salt and flame do what they ought -  
the spectre fades away to naught.  
Burning phantom all a-gripped,  
resealed into his earthly crypt.

All is quiet –  
                           -an expectant hush  
Then with a ‘zip’!  
                             All in a rush!  
Cars, dogs, people! Normal sounds!  
The curse is lifted from the town.  
Everyday sounds bring them cheer -  
traffic hum both distant and near.  
Less-welcome police sirens wail.  
“Ah crap,” says Dean, “it’s time to bail.”

Triumphantly our heroes are  
sprinting madly to the car.  
Weapons stowed back in the trunk,  
the Winchesters do a bunk.  
With the crisis now averted,  
(and the local cops diverted)  
job well done, the town restored,  
our heroes slip away - ignored.  
Onwards they drive, new jobs to find,  
their destination – none in mind.  
On the eldest’s lips a smirk,  
“You love it, bitch.”  
“Whatever, jerk.”  
Sam and Dean now on their way,  
to fight and save another day.

**Author's Note:**

> As you can probably tell, this was written for fun and not with any kind of serious artistic intent. Ahem. Hopefully I haven't offended anyone's sensibilities too badly! 
> 
> This was started years ago, added to bit by bit while I had a grand old time in the Supernatural fandom. Sam and Dean on the open road, hunting monsters -- always my favourite bit of Show. :) In some ways this is my love letter goodbye. So long, SPN, thanks for all the good times!


End file.
